He
by evilsweet
Summary: During moments like these, I would reach out and touch his hand. The palm of my hand is pressed against his cold dry skin of his. Our fingers will entwined...HarryRon slash


He

He doesn't talk, not like he used to. He would sit in the corner of his cell, absorbed into the darkness and into lost memories. His red hair grew out in locks of curl. He got into the habit of combing his hand through it to disentangle the locks. When asked why he does that, he simply replied that Ginny always thought curls looked good on a Weasley. It is the only thing he tries to keep clean as dirt covered his pale face which grew thinner each day, and his clear blue eyes that once shone brightly when he talks are dull and lifeless. He has given up hopes, and he knows it would be his time soon.

He would joke about death. About how when he makes it to heaven, the first thing he would do is hex Fred and George for wasting their lives in protecting his after making his life miserable all those other years. Shortly after saying that, a smile will creep onto his face knowing the sacrifice his older brothers did for him. He would make promises - things that he would do after he dies. He would make sure to tell Sirius when he makes it up there not to worry so much about me. To tell everyone that I will make it out because after all I am,

"...the boy who lived." He said during one of our aimless conversations in a firm voice, even though the crisp morning air made it impossible to talk. He gave me one of his grins, the ones from when we first met on the train. It was childish grin, almost innocent and carefree like when we were back in Hogwarts. He still believes in me, even if he lost hope in himself.

The only thing he made me promise was to bury him a simple grave right beside his family. All of them gone, killed in the war. He would talk about the flowers he had set on each of their graves.

"They are daisies, plain white daisies. Mum always grew them each year in our tiny garden. I always thought they were bloody plain while other families have rare flowers, and bushes of roses. But we had worthless daisies. But Mum loved them. She said the daisies were like a family, always there for each other," his voice began to soften into a whisper and he got like this whenever he talked about the past. "You see Harry, daisies like to grow near each other, and the taller ones always provide shade and protection for the shorter ones. Mum always said that daisies were like the Weasley family." He paused as he stared longingly out a tiny window, lost in another thought. "Promise me that you will remember to bring me daisies when I go?" To that I only nodded as he responded with a smile. This was the only time during the four brutal years there was the same type of sparkles in his eyes as the day we first met.

At night, he would weep and shake uncontrollably. Memories always make their ways back through the shadows and poison the minds. The memories about how things were before this war, and how things could have gone differently always echoed in his mind. When this happens, it is worst than death. He thinks about his family as loneliness eats up at him from the inside. He fears about being the only one left. He talks about Hermione, Neville, and Seamus and knowing that he couldn't live up to their bravery. He even talks about Snape jokingly sometimes in attempts to shake off unhappy thoughts that consumed him.

"Bloody hell, Snape had to go get himself killed just before I handed in my essay. I spent a bloody fortnight working in it." Humour has became his only way to mask his pain.

During moments like these, I would reach out and touch his hand. The palm of my hand is pressed against his cold dry skin of his. Our fingers will entwined, sharing whatever warmth we have left in our flesh. It is our way of breaking loneliness - to make sure that we are still alive. We will sit in silence just waiting.

There is no one left now in this prison. Those who came before us were all killed - some tortured, and some just simply died. Whatever's left are ours and ours alone. It is just us now. Whenever he shakes, I will hold him in my arms. I will stroke his hair, running my fingers through the fine red curls just as Hermione did before she died. I will wipe the sweat dripping down his forehead and kiss the salty tears running down the side of his cheek. I can feel him quivering in my arms from memories that haunts him. He is broken, and shattered. The carefree friend I once knew who stood bravely beside me during those hard time at Hogwarts is gone. There is nothing I could do, but to hold him in my arms and watch. We will sit in the silence just waiting, waiting for it all to end

The End


End file.
